


Take it to the Limit

by thecarlysutra



Series: Discipline [3]
Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Caning, Discipline, Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Imbalance, Spanking, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9089206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: Post-film, Ice has problems letting go.





	

  
Ice had been right about Maverick, but he'd also been wrong. It was a confusing feeling, and Ice didn't like it; he was used to being decisive, confident in his beliefs. This was new territory, and it was uncomfortable. 

***

Maverick went back to TOPGUN, scrubbing out of real combat after one mission. Ice stayed. He took orders and flew missions and took down bogies. Every day was easy and every day was hard, and Ice found himself in that conflicted grey area more and more. 

***

Ice put off shore leave as long as he could; he was better when he was working. Always better in the air; everything made sense up there, everything was easy. It wasn't until his feet were on the ground that things got complicated. Wars raged in his mind, and sometimes his body didn't feel like his body, his flesh unsound. Sometimes it was hard to eat; sometimes it was hard to sleep. 

He put off shore leave until it became a direct order. He made plans to see his grandmother, his sister and her kids. 

But there was somewhere he had to go first. 

***

Ice called before showing up at Jester’s front door. Jester didn't outrank him anymore, but there would always be a balance of power that Ice was on the wrong side of. Ice stood sheltered in a phone kiosk, the grubby plastic payphone receiver to his ear. Jester answered after two rings. 

Ice’s spine went attention rigid without any thought at all. “Colonel Heatherly, sir,” he said. “Tom Kazansky. I'm in town on leave; I was wondering if you might have some time to meet with me.”

Jester's drawl sounded almost bored. “What for?”

Ice swallowed thickly. He had known this was coming, that Jester would make him ask for it, but the words came up hard, anyway. 

“I need to be disciplined, sir.”

There was a long pause, and Ice's stomach knotted. He half hoped he'd lost the connection, but then, there was no dial tone. 

“My house, 1900 hours. This time you will be on time, am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Ice said, and the line went dead. 

***

Ice was early again, and this time he git out of his car and he walked up to Jester's door, swallowing down his nerves. He knocked; Jester answered. 

“You're early,” he said, and he moved back so Ice could enter. Ice started to speak, but Jester took him by the arm and shoved him into the nearest corner, Ice's nose in the crease. 

“You'll stay there until 1900,” Jester said, “and you'll be still and silent or God help you.”

Ice stood with his nose in the corner. He was still and he was silent, listening to his breath and trying to calm himself. It didn't much work. 

It felt like a second and it felt like an hour when Jester told him he may turn around. Ice turned, balling his hands into fists and then relaxing them, hoping to push out some of the anxiety poisoning his blood. That didn't much work, either. 

Jester looked at him in a serious, probing way. Ice stood his ground and he met Jester's eyes when the man looked up. 

“Tell me why you're here.”

Ice inhaled slowly, released it slower. “To be punished, sir.”

Jester shook his head. “No. Why are you here?”

That time, Ice understood. It is the hardest question Jester's had asked him since he stepped back on shore. 

“I feel everything. Too much. I'm perfect in the sky, competent and confident, but the minute I touch down I am not in control of myself.”

Jester nodded. “You need to be reined in,” he says. 

“Yes, sir.”

“You need to take that weight off your shoulders, give it to someone else to carry.”

“Yes, sir. Please, sir.”

Jester nodded again, just once, firm. 

“Come with me.”

Jester led him to the living room. Just like before, the coffee table was bare except for an assortment of implements, lined up carefully. Jester waited a moment, let Ice look. There was a slender, tapered rattan cane, about four feet long. It was whippy and varnished and Ice looked at it and instinctively remembered the sound of it tearing through the air on the way to his presented backside when he misbehaved in school. Beside the cane was a tube of lubricant and a thick, rubber false phallus. 

Ice had seen enough that his imagination began torturing him, but it was only a moment before Jester was telling him to strip. 

Ice took his clothes off. He folded each garment as he removed it and piled them neatly on one of the end of tables. Jester allowed it, because he knew Ice wasn't stalling; order just cane naturally to him. 

Jester, fully dressed, sat on the couch, legs slightly spread. He patted his knee, and Ice came to it, stretched himself over Jester's lap. Jester adjusted him, and then rested his hand on Ice's bare ass. Ice had forgotten how big Jester's hands were, God. 

Jester rubbed his palm over Ice's ass, and said, “Relax,” which was impossible, but Ice didn't talk back. He waited. After a long moment, Jester’s hand left Ice's backside, pulling up and then smacking down hard. It hurt. Ice felt the hit sting across his skin, then slam into the muscle below, aching like pressure on a bruise. He didn't have much time to think about it, though, before the next blow landed, and the next. Jester spanked him authoritatively, with an iron hand and an even, purposeful tempo. It was an inevitable, inescapable, thorough spanking, and something raw in Ice bubbled to the surface, because that was exactly the way his grandmother had spanked him when he was growing up. He would misbehave in whatever way, and then cramp with dread, knowing immediately that very soon his grandmother would take down his pants, lay him out over her knee, and bust his butt until she felt justice had been served.

Ice gulped down air. Jester was spreading pain across Ice's naked ass and thighs, but the real pain was in the memory of his bad behavior, the hundreds of whippings he'd been given because he sorely deserved them. This wasn't that. He hadn't done anything wrong; this was to contain him, to remind him that he didn't have to carry everything. 

Somehow that made him more vulnerable. 

Jester stopped raining slaps across Ice's backside. He toldvIce to stand up, and then helped him to his feet. Jester led Ice around the front of the couch, pushing him over the padded arm. Ice remembered to move his legs shoulder-width apart, and he stayed still, head down and ass up, watching as Jester picks up the cane from the coffee table. 

Jester walked behind him. He rested the thin body of the cane against Ice's sore backside, squaring up. Ice wondered how many strokes he was due, and then decided it was better not knowing. 

Jester drew back the cane. Ice heard it whistle through the air, and he flinched before it struck him, a violent flare of pain like a burning brand. Jester swung the cane again, another red hot stripe of pain crisscrossing the first, and Ice thought he'd be able to take the beating until Jester began to speak. 

“Think you're alone up there?” Swish, crack. “Think you're king of the world, responsible for carrying all life's stress and worries yourself?” Swish, crack. Ice choked out a harsh moan. He wanted it to stop. He wanted the beating to stop and he wanted the lecture to stop and he wanted the whole fucking world to stop. Just stop. 

“You,” Jester said, his tone unforgiving and non negotiable, and each word was punctuated by a raw stripe of pain burning into Ice's ass and thighs-- “you are not responsible for carrying this. It is not your job to swallow every bit of guilt and rage you feel. You ride out the feeling, and then you Let. It. Go.”

Ice had taken dozens of strokes by now, and the collective pain was fiery and fierce, but the last three were exceptional, unbearable. Ice howled, feeling as if the cane had split his flesh open, popped his seams. He felt himself deconstructed. 

The caning stopped there, with those ferocious blows. Ice slumped over the arm of the couch; his flesh was too weak to support him. Tears washed his face and he hung his head, moaning as he breathed. 

In his mind, he was still thinking, I must carry it. If not me, then who?

Jester was behind him again. He ran his fingers across the crisscross of welts seared over Ice's ass and thighs. It hurt, like salt on a wound, and Ice tossed his head, trying to shake off the pain. 

Jester’s hands were on Ice. He spread Ice's ass open, bunching the bruised muscles; it hurt so much Ice thought for a moment that he would be sick. Jester smeared Ice's hole with lubricant, and Ice had almost forgotten the butt plug until the hard rubber head of it was pressing against him. 

Ice squeezed his eyes closed, and he moaned, because he didn't want it but he'd agreed and he had to take it, take anything Jester would give him. Jester wormed the thick rubber phallus into Ice, and Ice held his breath so he wouldn't cry. The plug filled him, stretched him drum tight. It was huge, bigger than anything he'd ever taken before, and it hurt and Ice thought that he couldn't bear it. 

But he had to bear it. It was there, it was inescapable; he had no choice. 

Jester moved the phallus inside him. It wasn't gentle, and it wasn't slow, and Ice could not acclimate himself. He didn't know how he could take it. He wanted to fight and he wanted to bottle it up until he could swallow it down, but each way hurt more. 

Ice was raw and he was in pain and he was desperate for relief. But getting his blood up didn't work, and holding it didn't work, so Ice tried the impossible: he resigned himself to his predicament. He relaxed, went limp because there was nothing to do but wait until it was over. He let the pain and the desperation just wash over him, and he took it. 

***

Ice was wrecked. The pain from the beating was dulling into a bone grabbing ache; he felt like it would always live inside him, that his body had been permanently altered. Jester had fucked him for a long time, and Ice had cried himself empty and moaned himself hoarse. It hurt to talk and it hurt to walk, and he felt so owned, so forced into submission that he was actually calm. Nothing was his anymore; he didn't own the pain and he didn't own the desperation. They were happening to him, but he was just riding it out, accepting it without claiming responsibility. 

Ice dressed slowly. Jester walked him to the door, a firm hand on his shoulder guiding him. 

“Thank you, sir,” Ice said, and Jester nodded, and watched as Ice descended the stairs and took each ginger step toward his car, taking the pain without holding it. 

He was empty. He was free.  



End file.
